


Perennial, or Three Post-Its George Never Got

by widget285



Category: Dead Like Me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-16
Updated: 2006-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1638377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/widget285/pseuds/widget285
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a Post-It.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perennial, or Three Post-Its George Never Got

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the lovely romaticalgirl for doing beta duty.
> 
> Written for tzikeh

 

 

****

One: Petunia

It starts with a Post-It.

Nothing new there, right?

Just a little slip of yellow paper, three inches square, with a tacky strip of adhesive along the top edge of the reverse and a name and address on the front written in blue ballpoint in Rube's messy scrawl.

_R. Holloway  
218 Birch Street  
11:13 am_

She doesn't know if R. Holloway is male or female, young or old. She doesn't know if R. Holloway is - soon to be was - a good person, someone who runs in marathons to raise money for breast cancer, who always offers to mow the lawn for the old lady next door, who picks up strays and collects canned goods for the homeless shelter downtown. Maybe R. Holloway is a not so good person. Maybe R. Holloway is an adulterer or a tax evader or steals the neighbor's Sunday newspaper rather than coughing up the buck fifty. Maybe R. Holloway is a pedophile or a serial killer.

George thinks that should make it easier; oddly enough it doesn't.

Like Rube always says, it's not their place to judge. She just reaps the soul and leaves the rest to...well, whoever. Still, it's hard not to wonder about the souls she takes. She tries to think of herself as one of those guys at the train station, you know, the ones who punch your ticket. They don't care about whether you're heading to Portland or Vancouver, or wherever, only that you've got a ticket that needs to be punched before you can get where you're going.

Yeah, like that.

"You ready there, Georgie?"

George nods and slips out of the booth, Mason right behind her, thinking about uniforms and the slow steady rumble of a train.

[][][]

It's s double reap, her and Mason. Rube had slipped them Post-Its with identical addresses and TOD: R. Holloway and B. Murphy. Friends or strangers, whoever they are they're both going to die today.

She actually prefers those. She likes having someone to talk to while they wait. They do that a lot. Waiting. She figures that ninety-five percent of the job is just standing around waiting for the right moment while the actual reaping only takes like a second. If she's gonna have to hang around, she might as well have some company to keep her from dying of boredom.

Birch Street turns out to be in a nice little suburb west of the city, row after row of neat little houses and tidy little lawns. They walk down Oak Street, past Elm Street, make a left on Juniper Street, each one of them a perfect replica of the one before.

"It's like a bloody forest," Mason grouses, but there's no real irritation there. George just shrugs and let's the observation pass.

The reap looks to be relatively straightforward for a change. Mason bumps her shoulder and nods his head towards the white van sitting next to the curb in front of 218 Birch Street. The one that reads _Acme Roofing_.

"Acme Roofing?" Mason says, incredulous. "You've got to be kidding me! When did we walk into a Tom and Jerry cartoon?"

"I think it's actually more Wile E. Coyote." Mason shoots her a look. "What? It is."

Mason snorts, shaking his head before he crosses the street and heads towards the house. George has to scurry to catch up.

Gravelings love construction sites. That was something she'd learned early on. Without even thinking about it, she starts looking around for clues about how B. Holloway and R. Murphy will buy it. Ladders, hammers, nails, buckets of tar. So many possibilities, so many opportunities for mayhem.

George stands next to Mason and watches the two men working away on the roof. Well, that makes things easier doesn't it? Mason flashes her a grin, sharing the unspoken thought. She checks her watch. 10:56.

Mason grabs her hand and pulls her back behind a hedge, out of sight. Cautiously they peek over the top and watch the two men at work, oblivious to their impending deaths.

"Yo, Bobby," one of the men calls out. "We need more shingles."

"Get `em yourself," the other shoots back.

"I went last time."

"You're closer to the ladder."

"C'mon, Bobby. Stop being a prick."

Bobby throws up his hands. "Fine. I'll get them." He stands and makes his way down the ladder. He's a fair distance away, but his muttered `lazy bastard' is unmistakable. George smirks in spite of herself.

"Well, it looks like I've got mine," Mason says, rising from his hiding place. George pulls him back down.

"How can you be you sure?"

"B. Murphy. Bobby Murphy," he explains, clearly not seeing the problem.

"Bobby is short for Robert. Maybe he's R. Holloway."

Mason frowns. "Yeah, there is that. Still, doesn't matter, does it? There's two of `em, I'll take that one, you take the other."

"But Rube said we can't do that!" She remembers he was pretty specific on that point. Once you're assigned a reap it's yours. Period. Done deal.

"Well, then. That'll be one way of sorting it all out then, eh Georgie?" he replies with a nudge and a wink. He stands, ignoring her furious hiss of "Mason!" and walks over to the van where Bobby is hauling out a box of shingles.

"Hey, there. Nice day we're having, huh?"

Still hiding behind the hedge, George rolls her eyes.

Bobby blinks, obviously surprised either by Mason's sudden appearance or his lame ass question. "Yeah, it is."

Mason flashes him a charming smile and slaps him on the shoulder. "Well, don't mean to keep you from your work. Enjoy the weather."

Mason saunters away, hands in pockets. Bobby watches with a puzzled expression before he turns away and carries the box towards the house, a few stray shingles falling to the ground in his wake, completely forgotten.

Mason drops down behind the hedge beside her looking way too smug. "All done. Your turn."

She shoots him a glare that he ignores then looks up at the roof where the other man is working. Great. She frowns, wondering how the hell she's supposed to snatch his soul _before_ he dies, when the sound of a porch door opening startles her. She looks over to see a woman her mother's age standing on the porch with a tray in her hands.

"Thought you boys might like some iced tea," she calls up. "It must be awful hot up there."

The two men share a look. "Thanks Mrs. Holloway. That's real kind of ya."

George looks at Mason. Mason looks back and shrugs. George looks down at her watch, eye widening.

11:11.

"Shit!" She leaps up and starts walking...okay, running, towards Mrs. Holloway, blocking her path.

"Can I help you?"

George's mind goes blank. She stands there staring at Mrs. Holloway frozen in place. Mrs. Holloway looks at her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Not worry, not fear, at least not yet.

"I was...um..." George wracks her brain trying to think of something. "I was looking for 218 Elm Street," she blurts out.

Mrs. Holloway's expression softens into a smile. "That's the next street over, sweetie. All these streets named for trees, people are forever getting confused."

"Right," George says, nodding. "Thanks."

Mrs. Holloway smiles and starts walking again, oblivious to the hand that lightly brushes against her shoulder in passing.

George walks back to where Mason is waiting, looking far too eager. "So, whaddya think? Bobby's gonna fall on her?"

George shrugs absently, her gaze following Mrs. Holloway as she heads towards the pair of roofers. And then she sees it; the graveling. She watches as it picks up one of the shingles lying forgotten on the lawn, tossing it directly into Mrs. Holloway's path. The graveling looks at George, malicious glee shining in its beady little eyes before it scurries away and disappears.

The scene that follows, George decides, could be straight out of a Ben Stiller movie. As expected, Mrs. Holloway's foot lands on the shingle before sliding out from under her. The tray - pitcher, glasses and all - go flying even as her forward motion sends her tumbling into Bobby who in turn crashes into the ladder, tipping it over. The other man who is still in the process of climbing down, gives a startled cry and clutches helplessly at the rungs even as the ladder tilts over, taking him with it. For a brief moment time seems to slow as the air is filled with a shingles and iced tea and flailing limbs before gravity takes hold and brings everything crashing down with pitiless force.

There's a low pained moan as the man pushes the ladder off of him and raises himself up slowly. He stares in horror at Mrs. Holloway, her body lying motionless beneath him with her head tilted at an unnatural angle. "Bobby?" he whispers, turning to look at the man next to him, voice thick with trepidation. Bobby doesn't answer, of course, what with the whole lying face down in a bucket of tar with a bloodstained pitcher lying in the grass beside him. George will never know if it was the pitcher colliding with his head or the face plant into the bucket of hot tar that did it, but in the end, it hardly matters. Dead is dead.

"Whoa. That sucks."

Bobby is staring bemusedly at his corpse. George opens her mouth but doesn't get any further.

"My flowers! Look at my petunias! And the hydrangeas! They're ruined!" Mrs. Holloway shrieks as she stares at the ruin of her flower beds, more outraged at the state of her garden than the fact that she's now pushing up daisies. So to speak. She rounds on Mason, furious. "Is this your doing?"

"I...um..." Mason sputters, clearly taken aback. Most souls move along quietly, but there's always the difficult ones and Mason really sucks at dealing with them. He looks down at her helplessly before his gaze shifts over the George and relief washes over his face.

"Georgie! Do something! She's your assignment!"

George's gaze shifts from the irate woman to Mason's anxious expression and back again, remembering Mason's earlier stunt. She'll step in eventually, but for now she decides to stand back and enjoy the show.

Hey, a girl's gotta get her kicks somehow, right?

****

Two: Mistletoe

The Post-It isn't yellow.

George stares at the scrap of paper in her hands, white with bunches of holly adorning the corners and red ribbons curling along the edges. It's weirdly festive for, you know, death.

"Bloody hell," Mason mutters, slouching lower into the banquette and George remembers the last time Rube changed Post-Its on them, remembers Mason and the way he'd freaked out, thinking it was like the apocalypse or something. "I hate bloody Christmas," he mutters, still eyeing the Post-It like it's a bomb set to explode.

George stares down at the cheerful Post-It with the scrawled name written on it. It doesn't matter that it's Christmas eve; it's just another day at the office for them. Places to go, souls to reap. Nothing special.

Well, for most of them.

"I love Christmas," Daisy chirps, all bright smiles and eagerness. George can't say she's surprised; Daisy's kinda perverse like that. Of course, the Santa hat perched on her head and the wreath shaped pin she's wearing pretty much gives it away.

"The caroling, the decorations, the presents." There's a breathless quality to her voice as she speaks, a giddiness that seems a little out of place in someone who's been dead for decades. "It really is the best time of the year."

George sees Roxy roll her eyes. "Whatever. Are we done here?"

"Got somewhere to be?" Rube asks with a hint of wry amusement.

Roxy's face twists into a scowl. "Not that it's anyone's business, but I've got a load of canned goods to drop off at the homeless shelter. So, we done?"

"We're done."

Roxy is sliding out of the booth and is practically out the door before anyone can say a word.

"George, you go with Daisy. See if you can keep her out of trouble."

George frowns wondering why Rube thinks Daisy needs a chaperone. She gets her answer when she sees the address on her Post-It, identical to the one in Daisy's hand.

"Awww, crap."

George hates the mall. She hated it when she was alive, and she still hates it now that she's well, undead. But even then, there is nothing, nothing worse than the mall on Christmas eve. In fact, George wouldn't be surprised if one of the rings of hell - if such a thing exists, of course - is set up as a mall on Christmas eve, packed with desperate people who blew off their shopping to the last minute.

Yep, that's Hell all right.

Apparently not for Daisy, though. Daisy makes a high pitched squealing sound and George half expects her to start clapping her hands and dancing with excitement. Daisy's eyes are big as saucers as she tries to soak up everything.

"Isn't this wonderful, Georgia? All this joy?"

George doesn't see much of anything that qualifies as joy. She watches as a frazzled mom juggles several bags in one hand while dragging a screaming toddler behind her with the other, then has to dodge out of the way before another rather aggressive mother tries to mow George over with a baby stroller. The place is packed with people, running frantically about, wild-eyed and panic stricken while Christmas music blares from a tinny sound system loud enough to make her ear drums bleed. Daisy, however, seems completely oblivious, watching the entire spectacle with a childish delight that George finds incomprehensible and, well, kind of annoying.

"C'mon," she says, grabbing Daisy's arm. "We need to get going."

And that's another reason to hate the mall. All these people just make it that much harder to figure out whose souls they're supposed to be taking. At least the Post-It provided a little more information than just "Forest Hills Mall," though "Center Courtyard, north stage" still leaves a lot of possibilities. Too many possibilities.

George pushes through the crowds with Daisy in tow. She mutters vague apologies even though she's not really sorry. She at least has a job to do here. What's their excuse? Shouldn't they be at home with their families drinking eggnog and watching the Grinch or something?

"Georgia, slow down," Daisy says. "Georgia!"

"What?"

George stops and turns on Daisy, glowering. "We've got a job to do and in case you haven't noticed there's like a thousand people here."

"We'll get it done, Georgia. No sense in being difficult about it."

George gapes at her. "Difficult?"

Daisy stares back at her and then her expression changes, softens. "Oh."

George frowns. "What does that mean, `oh'?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," Daisy says breezily. "You're right, we need to get down to work. I think the north stage is this way."

Daisy starts heading in the direction indicated leaving George standing behind her in bemusement. She has to hurry to catch up.

"It's just up ahead, I think," Daisy says before coming to a halt so sudden that George nearly plows into her.

"What?" she asks then gets her answer.

The north stage is Santa's Workshop.

Well that sucks.

George shoots Daisy a look and isn't entirely surprised to see that some of her earlier enthusiasm has vanished. Daisy gives herself a little shake and suddenly her whole demeanor changes into one of brisk professionalism.

"All right, we need to figure out who K. Rodgers and H. Bateman are."

"Right, and how are we supposed to do that?" George snaps back, cringing at the whine in her voice.

Daisy flashes her a smug look. "Watch and learn, Georgia," she says before sauntering right up to the table where Santa's "elves" are busy printing out photos for frazzled parents. She scans them all and stops in front of a plump older woman with graying pin curls peeking out from beneath her Santa hat. She's holding a digital camera, George notices as she sidles closer, and there's a name tag on her green apron that says "Kate."

"Excuse me, are you Kate Rodgers?"

The woman looks startled. "Yes."

Daisy beams at her. "I thought so! You worked here last year, didn't you? You were such a help when my little Jimmy started crying. Don't know how I would have gotten him calmed down without your help."

Kate is smiling now as well, clearly pleased to have been remembered, completely unaware that she's being conned. "I'm happy to help. Sometimes the little ones get frightened. My Lucy was always the same way when she was little. They just need reassurance, that's all."

Daisy nods sympathetically then frowns a little. "Is that the same Santa?"

"Oh no. Mr. Murray passed on, god rest his soul. Mr. Bateman is new this year."

Daisy nods again and smiles. "He's very good." Daisy glances about then leans in conspiratorially. Kate leans in as well. "Kate...can I call you Kate?"

At the woman's nod, Daisy continues. "I'd like to ask a favor of you."

"Of course," Kate replies at once.

"My friend George here," she says gesturing towards her, "well, she's dying."

"Oh no!"

George's eyes go wide and her jaw drops in astonishment, or maybe outrage. Daisy quickly redirects Kate's attention.

Daisy's expression turns mournful. "I know, it's tragic, isn't it? So young. The doctor says she's not likely to last the week."

"That's just terrible."

"The thing is, George has never gotten to sit on Santa's lap. She grew up in Africa; there's where she contracted the sleeping sickness. It's always been a dream of hers, you see, to be like other children and have a real American Christmas."

"Of course," Kate replies.

Daisy sighs, her expression turning sad. "The problem is, she can only stay awake for short periods of time. She could never stand in such a long line. So, I was wondering if she could just sneak in the front of the line..."

Kate's expression turns serious. "I don't know..."

"It would be quick, I promise. She just needs a minute. It would mean so much to a dying girl."

Kate hesitates, clearly uncertain, as if somehow this breaks some super sacred code of conduct for Santa's elves. She looks over at George who does her best to look sickly then back at Daisy.

"I guess that wouldn't do any harm as long as you're quick," she says cautiously.

Daisy gives her a dazzling smile. "Thank you, so much. You really are the dearest thing." She brushes her hand along Kate's shoulder and George can see the faint shimmer of Kate's soul being drawn from her body.

As Kate leads her to the front of the line, George has to admit that Daisy is really good at this. She's got Kate wrapped around her little finger and despite the sheer improbability of the story, she's managed to convince the other woman to swallow the whole thing hook, line and sinker.

Kate apologizes to the people standing in line, murmuring about an emergency. She's pretty sure she sees her mouth the words "dying girl." Some of the parents shoot George angry looks, but apparently no one is quite willing to call them out.

When Santa, aka the soon to be deceased Mr. Bateman, gestures towards her, George plasters on what she hopes is a bright grin. This whole thing is freaking her out a little. She had never liked sitting on Santa's lap and by age seven she had staunchly refused to do so, much to her mother's irritation. And here she is, an adult, an undead one at that, climbing on to Santa's lap so she can take his soul.

Merry fucking Christmas.

Mr. Bateman smiles at her from behind his heavy whiskers. "Ho, ho, ho, and what's your name, young lady."

"George."

"And what would you like for Christmas this year?"

George pauses a beat. "World peace?"

Mr. Bateman laughs. "I wish that was mine to give. But surely there's something you want for yourself?"

Georges thinks of all the things she wants, all the things she can't have because she is eighteen and undead and wears a different face and a different name.

"A cat," she says. "I want a cat."

Mr. Bateman gazes at her with kind eyes. "Well, I'll see what I can do. Anything else?"

She shakes her head.

"Well, Merry Christmas, George."

"Thanks, Santa." She hops off his lap, her fingers grazing his arm, taking his soul with her.

George takes the candy cane the elf hands her and trots down the ramp to where Daisy is waiting with Kate. "Thank the nice lady, George."

"Thank you," she mutters, not quite able to meet her eye. "Can we go now?"

"Not quite," Daisy says mysteriously. George frowns at her but before she can ask, Kate chimes in.

"Here you are."

George feels something pressed into her hand and stares down at a photo of her sitting on Santa's lap.

"So you won't forget," Kate says, giving her a wistful smile.

"Thanks," George says, feeling the awkwardness of the entire situation.

"Well, we should be going. Lovely talking with you, Kate."

"You too, Daisy."

They walk a short distance away then turn to wait and watch. George isn't surprised when she sees the graveling perched on the peaked roof of the giant gingerbread house behind Santa; is even less surprised when she sees it loosen a few bolts. She watches as a little girl hops of Santa's lap and skips down the ramp to where her mother stands waiting, watches as the front of the gingerbread house sways drunkenly, back and forth before slowly, inexorably toppling forward, followed by screams and cries of dismay.

Santa is hidden completely from sight. And of Kate, the only sign is a pair of feet encased in bright red tennis shoes peeking out from beneath the ruin of the gingerbread house, like some twisted version of the _Wizard of Oz_.

George takes in the scene of chaos and sighs, thinking of the years of therapy in these kids' futures.

"C'mon, Georgia," Daisy says, her voice as gentle as she links her arm through George's. "I'll buy you an eggnog latte."

Daisy is as good as her word. The food court is packed with weary shoppers desperate for a respite from their shopping marathons. Looking around, George wonders if they know that Santa's dead, crushed beneath a mock gingerbread house or if they just don't care.

"What did you mean before, Daisy?"

Daisy cocks an eyebrow, sipping daintily at her peppermint mocha Frappuccino. "Before what?"

George's eyes narrow. "You know what I'm talking about. When you looked at me and said `oh,' like you'd just thought of something. What was it?"

Daisy sets her Frappuccino down on the table, her expression turning serious. "I hadn't realized that this was your first Christmas after..." She leaves the sentence hanging, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out what she's talking about.

"Oh." George says because yeah, of course, and what the hell is she supposed to say about that?

Daisy nods. Apparently George isn't the only one at a loss for words.

George looks down at the photo resting on the table. She traces it with a cautious finger. `Reaper's First Christmas' she thinks with an odd mixture of nostalgia and irony. She picks it up and carefully slips it into her coat pocket.

"I think we're done here, don't you Georgia?"

Nodding, George stands. Yes, she thinks, they're done.

****

Three: Cherry Blossoms

Today, there's no Post-It.

It takes her a minute to process that fact because everything else is so, well, normal. Or at least as normal as her life gets these days.

There's nothing special about today, apart from the fact that it's Banana Bonanza day. George _hates_ Banana Bonanza day because she really hates bananas. Thing is, Rube likes them and when he orders Banana Bonanazas all around, you shut up and eat them. The conversation is nothing special, either, since it's mostly Daisy and Mason bickering back and forth while Roxy snarks at them both. George just tunes them out like she usually does and entertains herself by stirring the remnants of her breakfast around on the plate with her fork until Rube clears his throat, which is his usual signal that breakfast is over and its time to get down to business. George sits up a little as Rube puts his utensils down and wipes his mouth and hands with his napkin. He balls it up and tosses it on the plate.

"Okay, assignments," he says without further preamble as he pulls the pad of yellow Post-Its from his coat pocket. He scribbles down the names and places of the day's reaps, tearing them off one by one. He hands them off, one by one, Daisy, Roxy, Mason. George waits, frowning when Rube puts his pen down and folds his hands in front of him.

There's no Post-It for her.

"What about me?" George asks, more curious than alarmed.

"You've got your assignments," Rube says, shooting a pointed look at the other reapers. "Get to work."

George watches as they slide silently from the booth. Roxy pauses, sending a thoughtful look first in George's then in Rube's direction. Rube nods almost imperceptibly, but George sees it, sees the way Roxy's mouth tightens before she turns and walks out of the Waffle Haus leaving the two of them alone.

George is suddenly aware of how very quiet it is.

"What's goin' on, Rube?" she asks.

"I've got a reap for you, Peanut."

"Okay," she says drawing the word out, growing suspicious.

"This one's special. I probably shouldn't even give it to you, but...well, I'd want it myself if I were in your place."

"Rube?" Her voice breaks a little as she says his name, as she watches him pick up the pen and write another name, another address, another TOD on a bland yellow Post-It.

Rube pulls it free and slides it towards her. Her fingers shake a little as she picks it up. She has to read it three times and even then she's sure it's a mistake. It has to be. She keeps staring at the Post-It until her chest burns from lack of oxygen.

_R. Lass  
3451 Beatrice Lane  
3:42 pm_

George draws a shuddering breath. "No," she whispers.

"Georgie..."

"No!" She yells. The waitress turns her head to look at the them, lips pursed, but George ignores her. "No, it's a mistake."

"No mistake."

"It could be; it wouldn't be the first time. Remember Ronnie? I was supposed to reap him and then it turned out to be a mistake," George argues, feeling a surge of desperate triumph that does nothing to blot out the terror.

"Ronnie was a clerical error. Wrong time and place, but he was still slated to die. He did die. You took his soul, remember?" Rube's voice is soft but provides no comfort.

"It could still be a mistake..." Her voice sounds very small to her ears.

Rube shakes his head. "I checked it myself, Peanut. Even had it double checked by someone up in management. There's no mistake this time."

George shakes her head, not wanting to believe even though she holds the evidence in her hands.

"Are you up to this, George?"

She looks up at Rube who's watching her with a serious look on her face. "'Cos if you're not, I can find someone else. You don't have to do it."

"No," she chokes out. "I..." George swallows. Hands twisting together in her lap. "I want to be the one."

"You sure? No second chances here, Peanut. No changing your mind at the last minute. If you can't do it, it'll get ugly. You know what happens to unreaped souls."

George swallows again, nodding sharply. She knows. She remembers the morgue and the soul left unreaped, the way he gibbered and babbled hysterically, eyes wide as he recounted his own autopsy.

No, George won't let that happen to Reggie.

"I can do it, Rube."

Rube nods slowly, thoughtfully and some part of her is warmed by his trust, even as the rest of her rages at what he's asking of her.

She's going to reap her little sister.

She feels Rube pat her hand.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Peanut."

George nods again and gives Rube a watery smile.

She's sorry too.

[][][]

George sits on the fence of Mrs. Kielpenski's house, legs swinging idly as she gazes northward and waits. She knows without a doubt that Reggie will be coming from that direction, knows it because Reggie always takes the same route home from school, cutting across the football field then down the alley behind Lynch Road before crossing Crescent Street to Maple Street until it turns into Beatrice Lane. George knows this because she took the same path when she attended Randolph Elementary School. Reggie always did tend to imitate her

That used to annoy the crap out of her, having an irritating little copy cat for a sister. She hadn't understood why or what it meant when she'd still been alive, but she does now and the knowledge makes her chest ache.

George wonders sometimes how she could have accumulated so many regrets in so short a lifetime. She likes to think that if she had lived longer she might have fixed things but she's not so sure and in the end, it doesn't matter because, well, she's dead and dead people don't get do-overs.

Someone is heading her way and George has to shades her eyes against the sun. She knows it's Reggie before the shape even resolves itself, recognizes the way Reggie hunches forward as she walks to counterbalance the bulk of her backpack and the way she bows her head, eyes glued to the sidewalk ahead of her, lost in thought. George feels her chest tighten a little more as Reggie moves closer, her braids swinging as she walks. The heavy frames of her glasses slide down over her nose and Reggie pushes them back unconsciously. Such a familiar gesture, one George has seen a thousand times and now she might be seeing it for the last time.

 _I can't do this_ George thinks, suddenly panic-stricken. _I can't_.

Her hands clench around the wooden fence posts as she fights against the impulse to run away or do something, anything to stop what's about to happen. She could save Reggie, she thinks in giddy desperation. She could keep her away from Beatrice Lane until it was safe. She could keep her occupied until 3:43, waiting until Death passed her by.

But even as the thought begins to take shape, George knows it's useless. You can postpone the inevitable, but in the end, you can't stop Death. She thinks about Reggie's soul corroding, turning black, twisting in on itself until everything that's bright and pure and good is gone. No. As much as she wants Reggie to live, that's a price too high for anyone to pay.

She can do this. A gentle passing is the last gift she can offer her sister.

She waits until Reggie is about three feet away before she speaks.

"Hey."

Reggie looks up, startled and stares at her gravely.

"I know you," she says.

For a second George freezes, terrified that somehow Reggie has seen past the mask, past Millie to her sister George residing beneath, but her next words reassure her.

"I saw you at the cemetery. On All Saint's Day."

George relaxes again. "Yeah, I remember."

Reggie tilts her head and studies George with somber eyes. "What are you doing here?"

George shrugs. "Just visiting. I used to live here."

"I don't remember seeing you," Reggie replies with a frown.

"I kept to myself a lot. Didn't really like to talk to people."

Reggie nods. "Yeah, I know how that is." She pauses as if considering before speaking again. "What's your name?"

George jumps down off the fence and steps closer. "Millie. What's yours?"

"Reggie."

"Nice name."

Reggie makes a face. "I suppose."

George is suddenly aware of the seconds counting down. Even without looking at her watch she knows her time, Reggie's time, is nearly up. There's so much she wants to say, things like "I love you" and "I'm sorry for treating you like crap," and "Mom's trying, but it's hard for her too."

I miss you.

But even now the words catch in her throat. There's too much and not enough time so what she says instead is "It was nice meeting you, Reggie."

She holds out her hand expectantly. Reggie takes it, her skin warm and dry as she shakes George's hand.

"You too," she says, drawing her hand away.

George's fingertips tingle at the sensation of her sister's soul breaking free from her body. Carefully, she returns to her perch on Mrs. Kielpenski's fence and watches Reggie walk away.

When Death comes for Reggie, it's almost anti-climactic. There are no gravelings plotting malice, no toilet seats dropping from the sky like superheated porcelain meteors. Instead it's just some guy driving too fast down a side street, ignoring all those bright yellow SCHOOL XING signs. With her eyes on the ground, Reggie doesn't see him, doesn't even know he's coming until there's a screech of tires on pavement followed by the sickening thud of collision. And then it's over.

George watches as the guy jumps out of the car with a horrified expression on his face. He drops to his knees and tries to perform CPR, but it's already too late.

Reggie is already gone.

George looks down at Reggie who gazes up at her with a shy smile. "Hi, George."

"Hey, Reggie."

Reggie frowns then looks over at the man futilely attempting to resuscitate her body. "Does this mean I'm dead?"

George nods. "'Fraid so."

Reggie ponders this, seriously, somberly then nods slowly. "Okay," she says, accepting the truth with surprising ease.

"You ready to go?"

Reggie nods. "Are you coming with me?"

George shakes her head sadly. "Not yet. I've still got stuff to do. But I'll see you later, okay?"

"Okay."

When George gives Reggie her hand, Reggie takes it without hesitation and lets her sister lead her away from her old life to the next.

[][][]

She doesn't know why she's here. She's never come here before, not in all the months since she died and found herself conscripted into the undead workforce. But she's here now, standing in the hallway, staring at his door as she wavers back and forth between knocking and running away.

In the end, he settles it for her. George almost jumps when the door suddenly opens without warning. Rube stands there looking at her, his hand on the door frame. He doesn't appear the least bit surprised to find her there standing outside his door, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He doesn't say anything at first, waiting for her to speak. When she doesn't, he breaks the silence for her.

"You wanna come in, Peanut?"

George nods her head and lets him usher her inside. She can feel his hand resting on the small of her back as he nudges her towards the living room. Her dad used to do that, murmured words, _C'mon, Georgia, don't be shy_ , _It's all right, Georgia, I'm right here_ warm in her ears. She feels oddly safe, cared for, so she doesn't protest when Rube leads her to the sofa and sits her down on the faded plaid cushions.

"You want some tea?"

She nods, not knowing what else to do. Rube gives her a smile that's sad and knowing before heading into the kitchen. She can hear the familiar sounds coming from the kitchen, setting her at ease as George looks around, distractedly. She's never been inside Rube's apartment before, wasn't sure what to expect really. It's cluttered and smells a little musty and there's an old fashioned clock on the mantle that makes a loud ticking sound that would probably drive her crazy, but which, she figures, Rube's grown accustomed to. The place suits him, though. It's messy and warm but comfortable. It's not as nice as the house she's sharing with Daisy but it feels like Rube, carries his mark in a way her place never has.

"Here."

George looks up as Rube presses a cup of tea into her hands, the fragrant steam rising up to tickle her nose. She takes a cautious sip, burning her tongue in the process, and swallows slowly. She wrinkles her nose at the taste, bitter, even though she thinks she can taste the sweetness of honey underneath. She takes another sip; this one less bitter than the last as she becomes accustomed to the taste.

Rube sits in the armchair facing the sofa. He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them, watching her thoughtfully.

"You, okay there, Georgie?" he asks, eyes still on her face.

George shrugs because, honestly? She has no idea.

Rube doesn't try to get her to talk, just sits and waits and watches her until the silence gets to be too much.

"Why?" Her voice is soft, but there's a plaintive note, like a childish whine and she can't help it, can't stop it because it's not right. It's not fair. "Why?"

Rube shakes his head, his mouth curved into a small, sad smile. "Wish I knew, Peanut. All I know is that this is the way it is. Always has been, all the way back to the dawn of time. Nothing we can do to change it."

George's eyes are burning and she knows she's crying now but she can't stop that either. She scrubs at her eyes, suddenly angry. At God or whoever the hell was calling the shots. At Reggie for not looking both ways before crossing the street even though mom told them to do that over and over and even now George can hear her mother's voice, that snap of impatience and irritation and well camouflaged fear _For God's sake, Georgia! How many times do I have to tell you! Never cross the street before looking both ways! Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Why don't you ever pay attention?_. Anger at Rube for giving her the stupid Post-It in the first place. At herself for...well, just about everything.

She starts when she feels Rube sit beside her. He rests his hand on her shoulder, warm and comforting. A sob breaks loose and she feels Rube's arm slide around her back, tugging her towards him. She goes stiff and tries to pull away, but Rube holds on and pulls her closer until she sags against him, too tired and too heartsick to pull back. George presses her face into the curve of his neck, her hands fisting into his sweater as she cries. Rube doesn't say anything, just makes soft, shushing sounds until her tears subside and her sobs fade into soft hitching breaths.

George sits up a little, releasing her stranglehold on Rube's sweater. Rube produces a handkerchief from somewhere and dabs at her eyes before handing it over. She blows her nose loudly.

"You all right there, Peanut?"

She nods, sniffles again. She's not, not really, but she figures Rube already guessed that for himself.

They stay there like that for a long time, with Rube's arm still draped across her shoulders and George curled up beside him. She rests her head on his shoulder, the wool damp and a little scratchy against her cheek. She doesn't ask why again and Rube doesn't offer any explanations and it's probably better that way.

The clock on the mantle keeps ticking off the seconds, minutes, marking the inevitable progression of time as present becomes past and the future becomes now. You can't stop time any more than you can stop Death no matter how much you might want to. That's kind of deep, George thinks, and maybe someday she'll have enough perspective to appreciate it.

But not yet. Not today.

**Finis**

 

 

 


End file.
